


Bridges

by alpacas



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, country storage cleaning is practically its own genre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:11:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denmark's brow knits and then he's smiling again, putting down a chart marked 'Denmark-Norway.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bridges

**Author's Note:**

> i originally wrote this in 2011; since rediscovering it, it's been edited slightly for cohesion but really, i think the first version wasn't half bad.

"D'ya ever," Denmark starts to say, stretching after putting down a heavy trunk, but stops without finishing his sentence.

Norway hasn't cleaned his storage in about half a century: the last time must have been 1910. It is dusty and stuffy and cluttered; Norway is never particularly tidy about these things, so Denmark is over helping clean and sort. Some nostalgia is to be expected, but Denmark only breaks off sentences when he's feeling shy, and the things that make Denmark feel shy make alarm bells go off in Norway's head.

He pauses elbow deep in a trunk of old clothing to look over at the nation. Denmark is going through old maps. Very old. That would do it. "Do I what?" Norway asks, even though he doesn't really feel like indulging it.

Denmark's brow knits and then he's smiling again, putting down a chart marked _Denmark-Norway_. "Y'know, I always thought Christiania was a prettier name than Oslo," he says brightly, moving past boxes, shelves, and trunks, seizing a wooden chest at random and opening it to reveal blackened silver and faded coins.

Norway for the time being turns back to the clothes. "No," he says, putting aside a sweater.

"Yeah! Christiania sounds pretty. Kinda… pretty, and nice, you know? Like a name in a book." Descriptive language is not Denmark's forte.

"Oslo's stronger," Norway says. "Norwegian." Only once he says it does he realise where Denmark is going with this.

"So's Christian," Denmark mutters, but it's not the tone Norway expected. He turns his head to look at the other Nordic—and Denmark catches him doing it, raising his shoulders and chin defiantly, the chest entirely abandoned.

Norway knows that Denmark is taller and heavier than he is, but he also knows how to read the bluster in his expression. He turns back to his clothes. "Go on an' say it," he says, refolding a bunad, placing it back in the trunk, and standing, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. He meets Denmark's eyes.

Denmark is frowning, concentrating, his usual expression when thinking hard. Norway waits for an argument, royal lines and superiority, _don't you care about Christian IV_ , but instead Denmark asks, serious and quiet: "D'ya try to forget all of it?" 

Norway isn't able to hide his bewilderment. 

He'd expected something sulky and whiny amounting to Denmark wanting praise for his culture, something easy and predictable and simple. Denmark feeds on compliments like a plant in the sun, and Norway doesn't mind doling it out when pressed; for all that his friend is annoying, he is still friend before any other, and Norway does like Denmark's people and culture aside from that. And Denmark likes to hear that, and so periodically he will whine and they will bicker and Norway will ultimately indulge.

He had not expected a serious question.

Denmark suddenly leans forward, like he's about to go to him, but stops himself, hurrying to explain in light of Norway's expression. "I mean, I know ya've got your own pride and all that! And language, and being Norwegian is neat!" Neat. Norway almost wants to take him to task for that word choice, but he's still surprised and Denmark is still barreling on. "I didn't _really_ expect ya to come back to me or anything after ya ran out on Sweden! And then ya didn't come and visit for a few years, not really, but that was okay 'cause ya were starting up and that was fine! But then ya started talking about… there was that thing," he begins to lose steam, "the 400 Years of Night…" Norway's mouth thins. "And, y'know. I never hear anyone talking about how it was nice. I mean, nice, too, at least sometimes?" He's smiling now, apologetic, it's just whining after all, except Norway sees the tightness in his eyes, and Denmark is never apologetic about things like this.

Norway does not know what to say. He doesn't like this feeling. Of course he doesn't miss it, don't be ridiculous, he doesn't ever want to lose his independence—but that isn't the question.

He remembers starving. He remembers being sick. He remembers being cold, and angry, and miserable; remembers the pain of losing land to someone else's war. He remembers the phrase 400 Years of Night, those that said things would be better under Sweden. And he remembers that those people were wrong. And there are more memories to sort through: building projects, though not enough. Sailing. Exploring. World conferences where Norway was one of the only subordinate nations, because Denmark hadn't thought not to bring him along. Lounging in the parlor, watching Iceland practice piano and Denmark struggle to braid Faeroe's hair. Denmark muttering something about his boss, red faced, kissing him for the first time with alcohol on his breath. Later by years, days spent together, playing marriage and sharing a bed. Fine ships and cannons and the open sea. The presents Denmark would bring home.

Norway was not unhappy then. "I don't miss it," he says, and watches Denmark flinch, his expression crumble and rebuild, the way he reels away and straightens himself up to hide the surprise. Surely Denmark must have known the answer. Surely he'd hoped for another.

"I see," Denmark says quickly, his mouth stretching into another smile—

"Don't interrupt." Norway picks his way across the small room, a more difficult task than it should be due to how little they'd so far cleaned. "No point missin' it," he elaborates. "So long ago. And your _province_."

"I took care of ya."

"I don't care that ya did."

Denmark's jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue that Norway should. Maybe he _should_ care, maybe it ought to count for something. But Norway doesn't believe so. He's also not, however, trying to hurt Denmark.

He is at the other's side now, and very deliberately reaches up for his face, pulling him down and brushing his lips against his. He can feel some of Denmark's tension melt away into relief, although the kiss lasts barely a second. "I don't forget it. It wasn't all bad." Nor will he deny some of it was. "It's the past."

"Mngh," Denmark says, and rests his forehead against the crown of Norway's head. Up close Denmark smells a bit like cologne. Norway doesn't have to wonder why he bothered putting it on before coming. "I don't really mind that ya changed it to Oslo," Denmark says after a moment, standing there, only touching heads; Norway can't see his face but can see his hands, uncurling gently at his sides. He considers taking them, but the point's been proven. "I just, I liked it Christiania 'cause it was something connecting, like a bridge, an' …I don't wanna—I wanted'ta stay connected. Not in a _creepy_ way or a remarriage—"

Norway reaches up to his cheek and pinches him, to cut off what will probably be a long and repetitive explanation that will ultimately come to something very simple. "Idiot," he says. "We're already connected." Language, history, culture, food: not everything has been changed and renamed. He lets go and steps back, casting an idle glance at the mess surrounding them. "Half the things in this room I took from you," he says thoughtfully.

Denmark grins and follows him to press a kiss to the top of his head, which is a habit of his Norway has always found vaguely annoying. "You're my best friend," Denmark says solemnly. That's not nearly all they are. But Norway doesn't argue.

"I am," he says. Denmark is simple enough that he's satisfied, diverted, and Norway isn't as certain this will be the end but isn't at all interested in pursuing the argument. Not while there's a storeroom to clean. Not with Denmark. "Go an' sort through those photo books," he orders; Denmark looks around and spots the small mountain in the corner. "There's one with photos from the World Fair in Paris I want for upstairs." The stack also contains several books with photos of himself, Denmark, and the colonies; posed and day-to-day; that's enough proof, Norway thinks. In case Denmark doesn't get the message, he decides he may as well be allowed to sleep over tonight.

Satisfied with this solution, Norway abandons the clothing. On a nearby shelf stacked high with odds and ends, he spots a medal commemorating his independence in 1905: dull silver in dire need of a polishing, the blue silk ribbon dark with age. Haakon VII, who was really just another of Denmark's Christian Fredericks… Norway smiles when Denmark isn't looking, and pockets it.


End file.
